Chapter Twenty-Two
Sparrow
“I love you, but there’s no way I’m letting you leave the house like this.”
She gestures to my outfit and slinks onto my couch, her legs draped over the side and her head propped on a pillow. Lily lifts one hand higher up in the air, her fingers holding a glass of rosé that swirls as she speaks.
“Lily, you’ve gotta help me.”
She smirks. “Well, that’s obvious.”
I groan. “Lily, you don’t understand. This was never supposed to happen. And you should’ve seen his face. Devastating.”
“Well, he likes you. I’ve been saying that from the start, I’ll have you know. You were just too stubborn to see it.” She crosses her arms in a satisfied-with-herself way, and I watch as Lily checks out my current state.
My hair is in a haphazard bun. I’m wearing sweats with a coffee stain on them. I can feel a speck of icing or some sort of sugar on my cheek, and my eye makeup hasn’t been removed since last night. She doesn’t approve.
Rafe and I kissed. Heaven and earth moved. And when it was over, and he left my apartment, I ... panicked. It was the kind of kiss that changes your life, and you feel it while it’s happening. I’ve been moved across countries and across worlds with that kiss. But my life is here.
Which is why, for the first time, I’ve called out of work to avoid a man who is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. He’s been calling, and I’ve ignored him. He’s been texting, and I’ve silenced them all. He broke through my walls, and I can feel myself building them up again like I’m trying to defend myself from an oncoming war. I hated the look of confusion in his eyes when I avoided him at the café yesterday. After we shared our kiss, I was walking on clouds ... until I fell into the abyss. It was all so real. Too real.
“What am I going to do?” I say quietly.
“About what? The fact that you met a beautiful man from whom even you can’t find a way to hide or that you look like a deranged raccoon?”
My mouth drops open. “How. Could. You? I am fragile. I am vulnerable. I am shook.”
Lily smirks and takes another sip of her rosé. “You’re not on social media. So, my comments actually help build your resilience. I express my love in a multitude of ways.”
I love her too much to fight, so instead, she gets a throw pillow chucked at her head. Her hand goes higher into the air to avoid impact, and a tiny drop of rosé falls from the glass onto her cheek. Lily’s eyes go wide, and I let out a laugh. I might as well have sprayed her with a water gun for the dramatics of her wiping the one spilled drop from her cheek. She shakes her head as if she can’t wait to retaliate, and I sink deeper into the couch.
“I don’t think Paris is for me. And when I say ‘Paris,’ I really mean all of it.” The confession slips out before I pass it through a mental filter.
It’s a moment before Lily recovers, and I see her eyeing me again. This time, she wants details. “You don’t normally talk like this ...”
I look out at the rain gently forming drops on the windowpanes and watch as one seems to make a fragmented path toward the sill. While most of the drops join and create streams of water, it’s the one on its own that I can’t seem to shake. “I feel like I’m being punished—that’s how it feels.”
I turn to catch a glimpse of Lily’s face as she takes in what I just said. Her blue eyes flash with empathy. “Rory ...”
“No, let me get this out.”
I wipe a rogue tear, much like the one from the wet glass, and look my best friend in the eyes. “I missed my number. I can’t seem to get over this frustration that feels like, at some point in my life, my number came up, and I was on a call, or I missed my name being called ... It’s like everyone got a manual except me.” I manage to get that much out before swallowing.
“I feel something with Rafe . . . so deeply,” I choke. “And before I can make sense of it, before I can talk myself out of walking away . . . my heart is locking itself up, with or without my permission.” I stand up and start pacing in front of the record player. “And I’m lonely. And I’m ... scared.”
I look toward a picture of my parents and me when I was a little girl. Next to it is an image of my mother standing on a bridge, looking out at the Seine. “And I’m mad.” I clench my fists but can’t seem to raise my voice. “I’m so mad, Lily.” The anger is making its way into fatigue. My limbs are heavy with it.
Lily stands and leans her head against my shoulder and watches the rain with me, the weight of my words sinking into my bones.
“Can’t you just tell him? Tell him that you’re scared. Tell him you don’t want to lose him. Heck, tell him that you’re bleeding out because you miss him.”
I wipe my face with the edge of my sweatshirt and look around my cute little apartment with so much character it could have its own novel. “I—I don’t think I trust myself to love him. And if I’m too scared to try and too scared to let go, then that leaves me exactly where I am now. And he’s too beautiful to get caught in that.”
It’s the first time I’ve articulated what’s really going on in my heart—the fight of fear that’s been warring within me. What if I ask Rafe to stay, and he resents me and leaves anyway? What if I don’t let Rafe in on how I feel about him and realize no one will ever make me as happy as he does? What if I try to find a way to do long distance with Rafe and realize I was never what he needed all along?
“Lily, I’m so glad I have you. Honestly, I can’t imagine my life without you. I’m grateful every single day—even when you keep me humble with your comments.”
Lily grins. “I don’t have all of the answers, but whatever is happening here ...” She motions across her mind. “And here ...”—she points to her heart—“is not letting you really live. Trust me, I’m living in it too.”
I want to ask her what she means, but she’s already shaking her head as if to say, “Don’t go there.” I nod but make a mental note that there’s something Lily hasn’t been telling me—and I get the feeling she doesn’t want to burden me. But one day, when she’s ready to open up, like she’s waited for me to open up to her, I’ll be ready to listen.
“He doesn’t deserve to have anyone mess with his heart,” Lily continues. “I know you don’t mean it, but you’re hurting him. In your silence, you’re hurting him.”
“I know. And it’s killing me.”
“But the thing is, life isn’t certain. I know you know this. Tragedies happen. People let us down. Even happy moments don’t last. And so, it’s up to us to hold on to what we can.” She leads us back to the couch and takes another sip of her drink. “And out there, probably three or four streets away, is a very attractive man, who happens to play guitar and put up with me ... which is a miracle, honestly. And he happens to have a love for ‘Sugar.’”
I sniff and cast my eyes onto the blanket I’ve wrapped myself in. The truth of it cuts like a knife. A sharp one. “Yes, there is.”
Lily stays for a little longer before I decide to work through some of my doubts by going to the place I love most: the bakery. I plan to try the French muffin recipe I’ve been perfecting again and methodically meld ingredients so that I can feel a sense of accomplishment in seeing them come together to bring someone else joy. If only there were such a recipe for my heart.
∞∞∞
The air is heavy with something I can’t quite name. While the faint smell of sugar and melted butter waltzes with the scent of roasted coffee, another feeling lingers. My father would’ve said it’s the “fallen soufflés.” The moment you know that the heat of life has created a hole inside that will knock you to your knees as soon as it gets the chance. Sometimes, you think you can outlast it, but there’s a moment when you realize there’s nothing you can do to avoid it.
Another memory floats in of Rafe and me dancing in the corner of this bakery. He had asked me to make a wish and hold onto it. And I did. But what he doesn’t know is that the wish I made was for him. I wished I could let the pain out and trust myself to love him freely. But that wish hasn’t come true, which is why I can’t seem to do the thing I want the most: hold him for as long as he’ll let me. I don’t think I’m very brave after all.
I haven’t answered his messages. I know I need to, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to get past the words that are caught in my throat. They beat against my heart and race through my mind.
After baking a few batches of French muffins, I also make some crème br?lée macarons. The air now smells like cinnamon, butter, and caramelized sugar. I’ve even reorganized the pastry case and arranged all the supplies and ingredients for the morning pastry chef. I should arrange the coffee shipment and organize it for the open mic night tomorrow, but I don’t. It’s too close to the stage, and that would make it someplace he has been recently.
There’s a chill in the air as I look around the empty shop, and the memories flood my brain. The place where Rafe and I first officially met. The stool where he sits and keeps me company in silence (mostly). The feeling when I heard him sing for the first time. The croissant kiss that has ruined me for all other kisses. It hits me that this town is now filled with him. My safe place has become fragmented, and I’m not sure how to move forward.
I want him deeply, but he’s not what I expected. After talking with Lily and baking furiously, I’m only more convinced than ever that we’re not going to work. He’s had enough people close to him try to take his dreams from him, and I won’t be one of them, even if letting him go ruins my chances of living mine. Because, in such a short time, he’s become my dream. But after my father passed, my secret is that I promised myself I wouldn’t ever let another person into my heart who could shatter it. And after feeling how much his kisses would shatter the plans I’ve made for my life . . . well, there’s only so much a woman can take.
It’s a prince or a promise, and I’m a woman of my word.
No matter how much I may want to feel what it would be like to wake up with him next to me. Or to know what his voice sounds like first thing in the morning. Or to switch out his coffee grounds at home so he accidentally drinks decaf. Or to hide his guitar picks so he’s constantly on an Easter egg hunt. Or to think that if I could only give in to my heart, I could walk home to him one day. The thought takes my breath away until I notice my hands are burning. The towel between my hands is wrung dry, and my hands are flaming red. I was so lost in thought I hadn’t noticed.
The overhead bell jingles, and I turn to see Rafe standing in the doorframe as if conjured from my dreams. His hair is glistening from the light rain falling outside. I take him all in, and my eyes burn with the beauty of him. I used to think he was handsome, but now that I know him, he’s so much better than what is visible on the surface.
Rafe looks at me like he needs me. It’s a look that’s going to haunt me. I’m sure of it. It’s a look I’ll remember when I’m older and someone references the one they let get away. He shrugs off his navy sweater and places it on a chair to dry.
The white t-shirt he’s wearing underneath grips his biceps and the planes of his chest. The air feels dry and taut. I lick my lips to try to keep them from sticking. He slowly moves his right hand through his cinnamon hair and shakes his head slightly.
His bottom lip gets stuck to the side of his mouth in a death grip, the emotion humming between us. Finally, he looks up. “I’m leaving,” he says.
My stomach drops. My eyes begin to burn, and I will my hands to stay where they are. I feel the desperation aching in my fingers. I feel the hope in me dying, its wings slowly clipped with each passing moment. If he notices the shift, he doesn’t let on. He walks toward me and away from me at the same time and stands in front of the coffee station.
He reaches for a coffee cup on the drying rack and spins it in his hands. He won’t crush it, but he toys with it like he could. I watch his fingers flex and grip and wish I were that hunk of ceramic right now.
I hear the sounds of the shop, the ice machine, the refrigerators, and none of it matters. The whole shop could crumble, and I wouldn’t have the heart to rebuild it. He’s leaving. And I pushed him away. I want to say don’t , but the word is caught in my throat. This time, my silence is slicing us apart rather than bringing us together.
“When?” I instantly hate how gravelly the word sounds from my mouth.
He doesn’t look at me, but I see his jaw shift. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I gasp. His gaze shoots up in question. I compose my face and lift my chin. I’m too good at pretending to be unaffected, because his shoulders slump slightly, and he resumes spinning the cup.
His brows indicate he’s debating internally, but I see the moment he gives up. His eyes search the ceiling, and it’s maddening. The way he affects me is unfair. I keep trying to convince myself that he’s not what I want. He can’t be what I want.
He lets out a mirthless laugh, spins to the small sink, and places the ruthless ceramic into the basin. I watch him reach for the soap and rag and turn on the water. His muscles are tense and unyielding. He’s now washing the cup he touched, and I can’t help but feel like he’s doing the same with me.
Only, I’m not a cup. And all the years of me being on a shelf and keeping men away from my heart doesn’t magically wash away because Rafe demolished my walls. Because he did. I can admit that. And I don’t think there will ever be enough material to rebuild when he’s gone.
“Why?” I whisper.
Rafe grips the mug in one hand and presses the heel of his hand into his eyes. This is the move he makes when he’s frustrated. This is the move that he makes when he can’t think straight. Since he didn’t dry his hands first, drops of water run down his face, making it look like he’s crying. And when he wipes them and opens those forest eyes toward me, I wonder if the water left on his face actually is some of his own.
“You know why,” he says, defeated. There’s no blame. Just truth. He turns back toward the sink, and I hear a sniff from his direction.
And suddenly, I’m thinking about how, at this time tomorrow, he’ll be gone. I won’t have to worry each time I hear the bell over the door. My heart rate will get a break from the times he brings in his guitar and sings quietly in the corner. I’ll finally be alone to sort through my emotions and fear.
But he sees me.
Which is the only explanation for why I’m suddenly at his back, my hands clasped around his waist and my cheekbone digging into his back. He stills, the water still running. I feel the muscles of his shoulders stiffen against my face, but I don’t dare move.
Being this close, listening to him breathe, the in and out feeling of it against my own body, I feel him still doing his best to heal me.
And I’m too late.
He relaxes slightly and shuts off the water, allowing me to hold him like this. He stretches one hand to put the cup in the drainer but doesn’t move farther, as if afraid to break the spell unfolding between us.
“Sparrow?” he whispers.
I shake my head. He reaches for a towel, and I feel it brushing my hands, still lodged against his middle.
When his hands are dry enough, he folds the towel and sets it next to the sink. His semi-dry hand, both warm and cool from his heat and the water, rests on top of my own.
“Sugar,” he continues. He’s no longer asking. “I know you won’t let me love you,” he says.
I hold my breath and feel my face heat.
“I wish you would,” he chokes out. I hear him swallow, and my eyes burn.
I tip my head slightly, feeling a hot tear spill onto my face. And suddenly, they’re flowing freely. I won’t loosen my grip, so I rotate my face so the salty water won’t reach his shirt. He must know I’m crying, but I refuse to have him take my tears along with my heart.
Instead of yelling at me or calling me on my lies, Rafe pulls me toward him gently. It isn’t a hug for dear life but one of sympathy. “I’m sorry you’re afraid,” he whispers over his shoulder.
He grips my hands tighter in an act of kindness. He’s being my anchor, even as I’m cutting the rope between us. I’m holding him and letting him go at the same time. And he knows it.
“You deserve this kind of love,” he says.
I swallow, careful to keep my face angled away from his back. He lets the implied question linger until I’m able to answer. “What kind?” I breathe out.
I feel him slowly move his finger in a pattern across one of my hands. Back and forth, his calloused hand brands me. I focus on what he’s saying and bite my lip the moment I realize what he’s drawing: a heart. The movement stops as if he realizes I’ve gotten the message, and he gently unclasps my hands from his waist.
Without looking, he lightly shifts me away from him and moves toward the door. His shoes shuffle against the floor, a marked difference from his typically confident stride.
He stops at the entrance, his hand—the one that just wrote on my own—loosely holding the doorknob. I swallow, trying not to let out a sob. With every shallow breath, I feel a piece of myself breaking. But I’m too scared to let this turn out differently. What do you say when it’s the end? As much as I hate this, I’m dying to find out.
“Rafe?” I plead. He pauses but doesn’t look back, as if I could turn him to salt with one look. I inhale shakily. “What kind of love?”
Rafe turns the doorknob and cracks open the door. He breathes in the night air and tilts his head to the sky. This is goodbye. And it’s a moment that is marking me. I’m sure of it. He turns his face slightly, his profile etched against the night.
“The full kind.”
The bell jingles as the door closes, and I grip the counter before sliding to the floor. I cover my face in my hands and silently scream as I smell him, that beautiful cedar-and-coffee smell, heavy where his arms touched mine.
I’ve lost so many pieces of myself with each person who has left my life, and the one person who wants to show me love, the man I’ve fallen in love with . . . I don’t have the strength to confess what he means to me. Running after him will only hurt him more if I can’t get the words out. And I don’t think my legs would move me anyway. Everything is spinning.
Can we ever come back from missed moments? It’s like the words are suffocating me, and now I’m too late. Suddenly, the lies I’ve been telling myself turn to dust. Because he’s worth all of it, and I denied myself my dream. His dream too. So I let the sorrow haunt me for tonight after all.